Fallen Angels
by TravellingThroughThunderstorms
Summary: Not all Slytherins are blind followers of the dark lord. A drabble collection for the Slytherin Boot Camp. 50 drables, exactly 500 words long, each of them featuring a different Slytherin character and a different emotion, based on a given prompt and a song by White Lies. Walden McNair is up.
1. Bartemious Crouch Jr

_****__Disclaimer: __The ideas are mine, the characters are not. _

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_**Character:** Bartemius Crouch Jr.  
**Prompt:** Five minutes to midnight_

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_"If we suddenly fall should I scream out_  
_ Or keep very quiet and cling to_  
_ My mouth as I'm crying_  
_ So frightened of dying_  
_ Relax yes I'm trying_  
_But fear's got a hold of me_

_Yes, this fear's got a hold of me"_

_**Death, by White Lies**  
_

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**Fear**

Five minutes to midnight. It was December, and the cold wind invaded the house through the carelessly open window, rendering whatever heating spells might be in place ineffective. Bartemius wanted to feel the cold. He took of his shirt and shivered from head to toe for a second when the first gust of winter wind embraced his naked torso. He closed his eyes. The opened them up again and glanced at his wrist watch one more time.

The room was small. He barely gave one step and laid down, his shirtless back flat against the icy floor, and every hair in his body stood on end. It was almost as if the cold had taken form, sinking its long fingers into his skin, grabbing his lungs, making it difficult to breath. Numbing his higher thoughts, thoughts of the choice he was struggling to make. The cold itself caused him pain. Not a lot, though, just enough.

Midnight. Barty reached for his wand, pointing it up to some books in the upper shelves, making them fly over his head. It was a childish, pointless spell, but he did it because he could. He could now, that is. He was officially seventeen years of age. The trace had worn off. In a way, he was free.

_In a way_, the young Slytherin thought angrily. In so many other ways, he was still completely stuck, with no idea what to do with his life whatsoever. He often felt- Different, even brilliant, when he compared himself with kids his own age. He understood thinks quickly, learnt spells faster, remembered things few others could. Sometimes he even believed he would do great things, incredible things, and most days, he was sure he would never be a menial public servant like the indignant father who'd given him his name. _Have you ever felt like you were meant for something bigger? Something special? _Barty did...

The envelope with his O.W.L. results lied crumpled inside the dustbin half a metre away, whispering that these thoughts of greatness were nothing but wishful thinking. He had barely gotten passing grades in most subjects, as his father kept reminding him, grief and disappointment in the old man's voice. Most days, Barty didn't mind. But sometimes those grades made him wonder. Perhaps he would never be more than a disappointment. Perhaps he was destined to be- ordinary. And these dark thoughts filled him with fear...

Levitation spells were too easy. Barty needed something more challenging.

A cockroach climbed up his wall. One word, _Actio_, and it was in his hands. One more word, _Crucio_, and it rolled to the floor, moving its tiny legs in the air, in agony. That was what pain was supposed to look like. It didn't last long though. He did it again. That was more like it. He had had a good teacher.

_Crucio_, he whispered one more time. If the cockroach could scream, would it be screaming right now? Perhaps one day he would find out.

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_**A/N**:__ This is a drabble collection for my** Slytherin Boot Camp** (originally from "Your favourite house boot camp" challenge).There will be 50 drables, exactly 500 words long, each of them featuring a Slytherin character, based on a given prompt.  
_

___Slytherin is a very misunderstood house. It is my intention to depict Slytherin characters - some well known, some rather minor - as deep, interesting people. People I can relate to, or people I would like to meet, rather than blind followers of Voldemort. Whether or not I succeed, its up to the readers to decide. _

_I have recently transfered this here from another profile. Since it had only 20 views I don't suppose anybody will miss it. Unbeta'd**  
**_


	2. Walden McNair

_****__Disclaimer: __The ideas are mine, the characters are not. _

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_**Character:** Walden McNair  
**Prompt: **Blood_

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_"I bought a tuxedo and I bought a gun  
And wore them all around this town"_

_**Bad Love, by White Lies**  
_

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**Pleasure  
**

Sharpening an axe is a difficult task. It's not quite the same as sharpening a knife; it's more dangerous. One can't actually move the axe over a bench stone, for instance. It is the sharpener that moves around the weapon, which places the hands of whoever is doing that dangerously close to the blade. The axe itself must be held in awkward ways, and the smallest slip of the hand could mean serious injuries, from severed fingers and toes to the loss of enormous quantities of blood.

Sharpening an axe was not something that could be accomplished with the wave of a wand. That may seem strange at first, but the truth is, not many wizards found themselves in need of such instruments. An axe, – _or a knife, or a chisel,_ they would argue – can not do anything a Severing charm can't. Walden disagreed. He was not the only one of course, but most of the others protected their hands with thick dragon hide gloves.

Walden McNair had taught himself to edge his weapons with bare hands. His skin was carved with scars; momentos from that distant learning period.

He had built that particular axe himself. It was a mediocre weapon, with a rough handler, made of unpolished wood. A crude instrument for the unworthy task of slaughtering beasts and animals for the ministry of magic. His noblest weapons – an inheritance from his father's family – should be spared the indignity of that job. Lucius Malfoy had gotten him that position. Malfoy. If the pure-blood community knew half the things written in the journals of Walden's ancestors about the activities conducted by the Malfoys in the past, their name would be dragged in the gutter. But that was distant time, before the McNairs and their close cousins, the Gaunts, fell in disrepute. Now, Malfoy was a wealthy lord and Walden was an executioner.

Not that he didn't enjoy it. The resistance given by muscles and bones to the blade traveled through the handler till his arms, giving him the chills. Shivers of excitement ran down his spine, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he watched the blood pouring out, splashing his face. The colours. The smells. The taste. It made him feel so alive! But he missed his human victims.

Hippogriffs and Trolls did not have fear in their eyes as the axe went down. Some of them became agitated, but it was nothing compared to the panic spurred by the awareness of one's own death. Beasts and animals can not speak. They did not ask to be let go. They did not promise him money, as if that was what it was all about. They didn't threaten him with revenge, shouting all sorts of insults. They did not tell him about their kids, as if he would take pity and spare them. They did not beg for their lives.

And they did not cry. Tears were were particular to men.

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_**A/N**: It was very hard to keep this a drabble. I had to cut out a lot. As a result, I have lots of material for further McNair centered stories, inspired by that song by White Lies._

_In addition to the Boot Camp, this was inspired by **The Not For The Faint of Heart Competition,** Operation Grim Reaper. Unbeta'd**  
**_


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